


Family of the Heart

by pigeonfluff



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Gentleness, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Smut, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Olivier, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Polyamory, Trans Character, Trans Miles, fluff and comfort, no one is dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-22 20:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14316201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfluff/pseuds/pigeonfluff
Summary: It is said that in the North, everyone has their secrets, reasons to stay in the harsh city. Three souls meet in the cold, all lost, all looking for something they can't quite name. Together, they'll make themselves a home, built with love and warmth, a shelter from the cold Northern winds and the harsh winds of the world.





	1. Sekerli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my comfort fic, where all your faves are alive, and bad things may have happened but everyone gets a chance to heal from it. It's incredibly self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy it anyways.  
> Later chapters will contain discussion of some heavy stuff, but they'll all be marked appropriately.
> 
> In this chapter: gentle lovemaking, depicted non graphically.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Early spring brought with it a certain restlessness, Especially among those who lived in the North. The spring meant longer days, new beginnings, and fresh air filled with the promise of freedom. For a few brief moments, one could see the greenness and feel the the world shifting, ready to emerge from its long and snowy slumber. There was an energising air in the city, one that spread out and seeped into the very stones, leaving no one untouched.

No one, that is, except the on-duty barista at the Cafe Malja, who was valiantly trying to fight off the boredom of a quiet, slow day. Everything in the cafe seemed overwhelmingly still. He had polished and cleaned the dark wooden tables at least three times in the past hour, despite nothing disturbing them. The gentle spring sunshine spilled through the large windows, illuminating the geometric mosaics that decorated the space and filled the room with bright colour, a stark contrast to the snow blanketed world outside. The cafe’s mascot, a tan and white stray cat, dozed in their light.

Behind the counter, he’d been busying himself with little chores, washing the coffee cups, stocking the pastries, checking on their stock. Anything to keep busy. There wasn’t much else he could think to do. In the back, one of his managers sat with the daily paperwork of the store, leaving him alone to manage the front.

Occasionally, someone would stop outside the window, cooing over Zara, before moving along. Miles sighed, and gazed at the vase of sunflowers sitting on the counter. Since Olivier had left that morning, it had been like this. The thought of her always brought a smile to his lips, and he settled into the stool behind the register. No one would mind if he took some time to work on his writing now. With pleasant thoughts, he let the eagerness of approaching spring fill him and his pen.

After all, nothing more exciting would happen before he was off.

 

He lost himself quickly in the words, guided by the aromas of coffee and the sticky sweet Ishvallan pastries, a little taste of the home he had left behind. It was always easy to find this space here, even when on the clock. He tuned out the gentle music that played over the cafe’s speakers, the distractions from outside. There were fewer people walking by now, and none of them were slowing down. He was in his own world, a safe world of his own creation, where petty problems like race and religion, gender and sexuality didn’t matter. A world where he could live freely, if he were ever transported there. The word he always hoped to make a reality.

He started when the door chime jingled, and then gaped as he took in his customer. He was large, so large that he had to duck to get through the door. He made the cafe seem far smaller than it was, but held himself like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Like he was afraid of something, even as he glanced around with curious eyes, so different from the judgemental or scornful gazes Miles was so used to, even in this little sanctuary.

“Hi, welcome!” He set down his writing, and put on his best customer service smile, trying to get a better read on the stranger. He couldn’t tell what colour the man’s eyes were, but they remained curious, even as they came to meet Miles’s own, hidden behind dark glasses though they were. He wore his hair boldly, a long elegant braid and mohawk standing out on his otherwise shaved head. Somehow, he reminded Miles of a bear, a very… timid bear.

“I, uh, I hear this is the place to get good coffee around here.” His smile was polite, but obviously forced. Not that Miles could say much. After all, his job was made of carefully faked cheer and charm.

“Hot, fresh Ishvallan coffee and sweets, baked daily. We also do espresso.”

“Oh! I’ve um, never had Ishvallan coffee before. Or sweets, when I think about it. Do you have a recommendation…?”

“Well, the Baklava is classic, most Amestrians enjoy it. It’s very popular. As for coffee, how sweet do you like it?”

“Very.”

Miles chuckled. It was certainly a bit unexpected, but the customer was always right. “So I’ve got one order of Baklava and an Ishvallan coffee, brewed very sweet, coming right up!”

The smile the man gave this time felt more easy, even as he shifted his weight. “Do you need my name or anything?”

“I’m fairly certain I can find you. The store isn’t that big.” He spoke dryly, smile quirking in droll amusement.

The man nodded, the faintest of blushes crossing his cheeks as he paid. Miles couldn’t take his eyes off of him as he took a seat, once again looking around the store curiously. It didn’t take long to start the coffee brewing, or to plate the pastry. He watched the guest in glances as he tended the pot, making sure the coffee was perfect. The visitor had already shed the wariness that had marked him before, openly examining the art, seeming to listen carefully to the gentle music. He never looked at the counter, at least, not when Miles was watching. 

There was something familiar about him, something Miles couldn’t quite place. Most people came to Cafe Malja for a quick cup of espresso on their way about their day. Those who sat and stayed were almost always regulars, seeking a few moments in the sanctuary of a simple, timeless ritual. He turned it over in his mind, the little oddities, trying to pin down the memory the man conjured.

With the coffee finished, he carried it and the food to the table with practiced grace. The man smiled in appreciation, nodding as he set the plate down.

“Forgive me if I’m prying, but you’re the first customer I’ve had in hours. What brings you to a place like this in the middle of the day?”

The man looked up, eyes wide, as though he hadn’t expected Miles to say anything to him.

“Well, my boss gave you a recommendation. I work nearby, and it’s my lunch…”

It was Miles’ turn once again to be surprised. This neighbourhood wasn’t the touristy sort, but it was definitely more genteel than he’d expect a man who looked like the poster boy for a local gang to work in. "May I ask what you do?”

“M’ a florist.”

Miles was starting to get the sense that he really should expect the unexpected of this man.

“A florist huh? Must feel nice to bring people joy.”

“It’s not always about joy…” his voice trailed off, and for the first time since he entered, Miles saw him glance to the counter. “But it seems someone here is well loved.”

“Ah, what do you mean?”

“Those sunflowers. They can represent gratitude, and admiration. They’ve been arranged carefully too, like someone put a lot of thought into them. I’d guess they were given as a way to say ‘You bring warmth to my life.’”

Miles thought about the huff Olivier had been in when she’d thrust the vase at him that morning, and chuckled. It was just like her to play it off. “Well… I can’t speak for that myself, but I can say your presence has brought warmth to our cafe.”

Miles had to hold back his gasp as the man bushed, far more intensely than before, features radiating warmth, something fluttering behind his eyes, seeking, wanting,  _ needing. _

“Thank you for your kindness Mr…?”

“Miles.”

“Call me Buccaneer.”

“Well, Mr. Buccaneer, I should let you enjoy your coffee.” He smiled again, and went back to the counter, once again picking up his pen and notebook, still watching Buccaneer.  The man was surprisingly delicate as he removed his white gloves, and picked up the finely decorated cup. It was impossible to ignore the gleaming metal hand. Automail. People didn’t just happen to have automail hands, not even in the harsh lands of the north.

Suddenly, everything clicked, like a puzzle whose last piece hd just been found. This Buccaneer, knowingly or not, needed a home.

When Miles looked at his face again, finally relaxed, he could only see a portal into the past, a reflection of the person he’d been when he’d first come to the north four years ago.

He couldn’t pry. This was just work, just the cafe. He wasn’t kin, a brother in Ishvalla. He was just a man from the street, with something hiding beneath. 

He tore his eye away, and went back to work, pen in hand.

 

It was easy for him to lose track of time when he wrote, the flow of the words easing even the unwavering need to know more, the writer’s curiosity that had always been his drive. When he looked up again, Buccaneer had coaxed Zara over, and was petting her softly. He seemed to glow, no longer afraid of being observed. The swirling cloud of thought took Miles by storm once again, as he added another note to the unexpected nature of the man called Buccaneer.

“She’s not usually so friendly you know.”

“Really? She seems nice.”

“Nice? Yes. But friendly? Hah!”

Buccaneers smile lit the cafe, brighter than even the springtime sun. In such a short time, he seemed to have become a different person, someone confident, easy with the world. For someone who looked so intimidating, someone Miles would usually overlook or dismiss, he held warmth inside. He paused, and shook his head slightly, memories of another clogging his thoughts for a few brief moments.

The fact was, there was more to Buccaneer than met the eyes, and he desperately wanted to unravel the story behind him.

But now, he was rising, returning the dishes, obviously ready to leave.

“Thank you for the coffee, it was truly a delight. Come by the shop if you need some food for these guys.” He gestured to the sunflowers, “They’ll appreciate it, I know.”

Miles nodded, filing a mental note for later. “Of course. Don’t be a stranger yourself. We like regulars here.” He smiled the most genuinely charming smile he could muster, and was rewarded with another faint blush. It was  _ cute _ , the way he had melted. As Buccaneer left, Miles found himself drinking in every detail, almost like reading the summary of the Drachman who had stepped into his cafe, taking careful note of his stance, his stride, the way his braid swung behind him, fastened with a colorful silken bow.

Yes, Buccaneer was a novel, waiting to open its pages.

And Miles had always been a sucker for a good story.

***

If the day’s lanquidity was boredom, than the evenings’ was peaceful. There was nothing more wonderful to Miles than kissing Olivier as she came in, still covered in engine grease and sweat of a good hard days work at her auto shop, unless it was watching her smile as she ate whatever he’d cooked for the night. Of course, the showers that came afterward were always a treat in themselves, both of them relishing in each others touch, cleaning anyplace the other couldn’t reach, casual conversation coming and going. Olivier was always ready to share her day with a quick story about her team’s latest antics.

“So Karely says that Mustang actually made that kid, Feury, wear a miniskirt.”

“Really? Poor guy…”

“Of course, I think Karley was disappointed we weren’t there to see it.”

“At this time of year? You’ve got too many people depending on you here.”

“I know. I wouldn’t leave them. You know that.”

They settled into their bed, and Miles picked up Olivier’s hair brush, as she pressed against him.

“You haven’t said anything about your day… did something bad happen?”

“Well, something interesting happened at the cafe today.”

“Did Scar bring back another stray cat?”

“No, no, nothing like that this time.” Miles’ smile was gentle as he brushed Olivier’s hair, carefully freeing it from tangles and making it shine. She almost melted against him, claiming every little touch of his hands, letting him take care of her. “A new customer came in.”

“New customers come in every day. Did this one call you a red eyed dog too?”  He could feel her tensing, voice hard and fierce, always ready to fight those who would hurt him, through word or deed.

He sighed, pausing his attentive grooming to rub her shoulders, trying to reassure her. 

“No… Thankfully not. This one was  _ different _ Liv.”

“Oh, so you found a new  _ project _ .”

“I hate when you say it like that.”

“Tch.”

It was quiet again, the only sounds her gentle humming as he stroked her hair. He leaned forward, kissing her head. “He’s not a project. I just had one of my feelings about him.”

“Another lost Ishvallan soul in this snowy wasteland?”

“Drachman actually, by the looks of him.”

“That's unusual.”

“I know. He has a story, Liv.”

“And you just can't wait to meet him again?”

“Hey, it's not every day I see a man who looks like a bear blush like a schoolgirl.”

Her laughter was bold and bright, filling the space. “You’re hopeless Miles.”

“Hey, stop shifting like that, you’ll muss up your hair.”

“If I ‘muss it up’ you’ll have no choice but to pamper me more!”

“Mm, as much as I love to pamper you, I did have something else planned…”

“Oh? Really now?”

“Well, a lovely young person brought me a bouquet today… “

“They’re just some silly flowers.”

“Well, according to my Drachman friend, they mean I am well loved, and bring warmth to your life.”

“Well…. Is that a lie?”

“Mm, of course not. You’re a remarkable partner Liv.”

This time, she turned around, pulling him close for a soft kiss, not caring about her half braided hair anymore. He tried to protest, but the words died on his lips as she straddled him, pushing him against their pillows, stroking over his chest, his scars, fingers blazing a trail for her lips, unapologetically passionate.

“Less talking now Miles. More gratitude.”

It was his turn to laugh, to pull her close and let himself caress her soft curves, let himself savour every slight sound she made, the little gasps and panting moans that told him this was real, so very real. He marveled at her, at the knowledge that she was his, and he in return was hers. Together, they began an easy dance, steps well practiced as their lips clashed and breath mingled, hands entwining as they pressed against each other, both taking solace in this, their sanctuary of tender intimacy. Olivier knew him like no other, accepted him, at the core, for all of who he was, and in return for his submission to her unbending will, she gave herself, without question or hesitation.

Together, they sang hymns of praise for each other, Miles losing his dearest words as the chorus of soft sounds overwhelmed him, groaning, crescendoing, pulling them both over the edge into a grand finale worthy of a symphony. The denouement came in shaky breaths and lazy kisses trailing over still sensitive skin, tender glances and bared souls.

If the warmth of her body hadn't already melted him, the warmth in her gaze surely would have.

“Ah… I'm supposed to be the one thanking you Liv… now I feel I owe you.”

“That's what you always say.” Her laughter carried in her voice, eyes sparkling as she rested her head on his chest, fingers still trailing over his abs.

“Well it's true! I should be the one buying you bouquets.”

“Flowers suck ass, Miles. Now, a nice wrench…”

He pulled her closer and buried his face in her hopelessly disheveled hair. “Thank you for being my story.”

She took advantage of her position, and nuzzled his cheek. “You absolute sap.”

“No,  _ your  _ absolute sap.”

Here, in his bed, with his lover at his side, the troubled thoughts finally fled.

He could only hope the mystery man, Buccaneer, had a sanctuary of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love to yell about my stuff, so feel free to yell at me about it. <3
> 
> Note: Ishvallan Coffee is just renamed Turkish Coffee. The chapter title is taken from how Buccaneer orders his.


	2. Sunflowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! This one took a while, but it's also like, the longest thing I've ever written.In this chapter we spend some time with Mr. Buccaneer.
> 
> No specific warnings for this chapter, but if I missed something just let me know~
> 
> Please enjoy!

Buccaneer hadn’t anticipated northern mornings being so cold or so grey. Everyone knew the reputation of the city of course, but experiencing it first hand was a different story. Especially after so long in the relatively temperate climate of Central.

He groaned as he sat up on his mattress. It was too damn early. Again. The cold seemed to have seeped into his bones, a dull ache that refused to ease. He clutched at his right shoulder, where metal met flesh, gritting his teeth. Even after two years, it throbbed. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, and counted to ten. Then again, this time in Drachman.

He wouldn’t be getting any more sleep. With a heavy sigh, he rose, and set about his morning routine.

Put on a sweater to stave off the chill.

Open the blinds, to let in what little light there was.

Breathe.

Take brief comfort in scalding instant coffee.

Make do with cold cereal.

Stretch, just like the docs showed him.

Try not to wince because of the ache.

Try not to dream of cold-weather hardy automail.

Muster the courage to strip down.

Fight the protective sleeve he had to wear.

Curse whoever had had the idea to pull rubber sleeves on with non-dominant hands.

Finally shake the ache of the cold with the hot shower.

He didn’t dawdle, but it was enough to make him feel human again. He took his time dressing, and then fumbling with his hair. It was still a struggle to braid it on his own, but it was worth the effort.  By the time he’d finished with it, the sun had fully risen, its rays streaming through his windows. He smiled as he took in the view of Briggs Mountain. The apartment might be small and cold, but at least he had that.

Soon… Soon he’d be back out there.

He turned back to the room, finally able to appreciate it. His ferns drank in the weak light, all looking perky as they welcomed the day. If they could face it, so could he.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as the morning had made it seem.

Smile growing ever brighter, he rifled through a drawer, and selected a sky blue ribbon, tying it in a neat bow at the base of his braid.

Perfect.

A little touch of colour had always made his life better.

With his own needs attended to, he turned his attention to the ferns. Each had its own needs, its own history and name. He’d have plenty of time to attend to them before leaving.

He stroked the fronds of the smallest as he watered it. “That’s right Anya, drink it up. We don’t want you wilting now, do we?” The plant couldn’t respond, of course. But he felt their appreciation in their foliage, in seeing them grow and thrive. Once, they had been broken, sold on clearance, ugly and discarded. Now, they were his.

He hummed as he worked, the sun rising higher and light warming the apartment as he worked. With the new light, he found himself feeling stronger, aches a nearly distant memory. Each task was a step forward, leading him until he was ready to step out of the apartment and face the rest of his day.

Outside, it was still chilly, the sun not yet strong enough to fight the Northern winds. Still, he could taste the scent of spring, feel it blowing through the city, waking it up after a long hibernation. Even the industrial district he called home wasn’t immune, little greens poking through cracks in the sidewalks, the sky brilliantly blue up above.

It felt good to walk freely outside again. The dead of winter had forced him to scuttle about, never far from shelter for fear of frostbite, or worse. As grateful as he was to have it, he’d thought more than once that automail was a real bitch.

The streets were practically empty, only a few workers to be seen as he headed towards the Briggs District. Walking took longer than bussing, but he’d never minded. He was supposed to be living normally, after all. The doctors said keeping a regular routine was important, especially given his… history. Walking the city wasn’t the same as hiking, but it would have to do. Until the final thaw, he would walk the city streets, gratefully. Anything was better than being trapped in a concrete box.

The Briggs District had always been a riot of colour and charm, entirely unlike the fancy and sleek downtown areas of North City, or the ragged and crumbling industrial districts. And unlike them, or the polished rich residential areas covered in pretty facades, it felt like home. A place where people actually lived.

This was the place he remembered fondly, his grandmother telling him stories about the people and tribes of her home as they walked through the brightly painted houses, or sampled food from local businesses. Here, outcasts and the othered made their homes, and lived their lives. Houses were painted with Drachman folk art, telling of traditions. Nestled right beside them was quaint Amestrian architecture, little shops that had been built before the city's founding. Down the street, rainbow flags were flown beside Amestrian, people unashamed to live with pride here.

Newer were the squat square buildings with signs written in the flowing script of the Ishvallans, houses displaying the geometric art of the desert region. It still felt foreign, to see so many of the desert’s children in such a cold climate so far from their home. But here, they could live freely, and relatively openly. Not even Briggs was free from discrimination, but it was better than Central.

Anything was better than being forced to hide in corners, denying yourself. There were good reasons to come to the North.

Buccaneer took a deep breath, forcing himself to unclench the fist he’d unconsciously made. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past. The last thing he wanted was to come into work angry.

He put his smile back on as he entered the flower shop, his employers voice booming in greeting.

“Good morning! It’s wonderful to see you in good health Mr. Buccaneer!”

“I’m glad to be in good health myself Mr. Armstrong.”

Alex Louis Armstrong was a man incapable of doing anything by halves. He was large, a presence that couldn’t be ignored. He was intimidating in a way, but all the fear that his muscles and size inspired was belied by his heart. Truly, it was the largest muscle the man possessed.

There weren’t many people willing to take a chance on a man who looked like the poster boy for the Drachman Mafia. There were fewer willing to actually hire a man with a criminal record, at least to do anything besides lift box after box in a stuffy warehouse someplace.

But Armstrong had taken a chance. And now Buccaneer had the privilege of learning his trade, of doing something good for others.

“I’d like you to manage the greenhouse today. We just got a shipment of orchids in, and they’ll need a touch of special care before we put them on display!”

“Yes sir!” He was beaming. The greenhouse was like a sanctuary amongst the dull grey that surrounded him most of the time. It was his favourite part of the shop. Almost everything they sold was cultivated there. Every inch of the space was covered in pots, a wide variety of plants and flowers growing, from the traditional roses and lilies to the more unconventional blooms they kept for those trying to send specific messages. Each flower had its own voice and meaning, each required its own special care. Here, he studied, trying to learn them all. Every new thing he remembered was an encouragement. He still had something to offer society.

It wasn’t at all like nature, the earth’s own creation. But between the colour of the neighbourhood, the perfume of the flowers, and the earth they were planted in, he felt at ease. This wasn’t where he longed to be, but it was good enough. With a smile, he went to work.

Anything was better than another warehouse.

***

It was easy to get lost in the routine of the greenhouse. He spoke softly to each plant, just like they were his own. The work itself wasn’t difficult, but he still had limits. He could feel the dull ache from the morning starting to return, but he wasn’t about to start complaining. Still, it was a relief when he saw Armstrong push through the doors, sparkling as always. 

“Mr. Buccaneer! I know it’s early, but I don’t wish to overwork you! Why don’t you take your lunch early today?”

“Ah, it’s no trouble…”

“Nonsense! You’ve been tense. But today is beautiful! You should take advantage of it!”

There would be no arguing with Armstrong, it was apparent. At least he meant well. He was… hard to process, but it was nice to know that someone actually cared.

“Any recommendations today?”

Buccaneer had always loved to try new foods, and Briggs was a delight for the palette. The diversity of the neighbourhood lent itself to variety, dozens of family owned shops cooking up cuisine better than anything he’d been able to get in Central. And of course, Armstrong seemed to know which places were the absolute best, and he was more than willing to share his knowledge, claiming that “giving good recommendations is a skill that has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!” True to his word, he hadn’t let Buccaneer down yet

“Well, if you need something relaxing, why not try the Cafe Malja? It’s only a few blocks down, and my sister gives it glowing reviews!”

He nodded, rolling the name over in his mind.  _ Malja _ . A strange word, something he couldn’t place the origin of, but it was worth trying. It had been far too long since he’d had a good cup of coffee.

He listened carefully as Armstrong gave him directions, committing them to memory. Despite the time, it was still cold enough for him to reach for his gloves and coat. The chill would only be worse after spending all morning in the carefully controlled climate of the greenhouse.

The walk was short and pleasant, the streets still not very busy. That was fine by him. Fewer people meant fewer odd stares, and no awkward questions. It was easier like this.

He stopped at the address Armstrong had given him, in front of a distinctive building. The sign was elegant, proclaiming the cafe’s name in both Ishvallan and Amestrian scripts. Like the other Ishvallan houses and business that had been built in the area, it was square, with large windows and geometric carvings decorating the eaves. Buccaneer found himself staring, trying to pull himself in. This place wasn’t his. Sure, it was just another cafe, but there was something about it that felt… different. Something about it screamed of its origins, declaring this a space for the Ishvallans of the North. He felt like a trespasser. But he was already here, and it was too late to go back. He took a deep breath, counting to himself.

“...Devyat…Desyat…”

He gathered his will, and stooped through the door. A small bell jingled, and the man at the counter started. Buccaneer glanced around, trying to get a feel for the unfamiliar surroundings. The store was a bright pop of color in the still-snowy city. It was fascinating, but not nearly as fascinating as the man on duty.

Even seated, he gave an impression of height, and projected an aura of calm confidence. He’d apparently been caught off guard, and tucked what looked like a notebook away. He looked dignified, nose long and straight and cheekbones set high, highlighted by carefully styled sideburns. He’d pulled his striking white hair back into a spiky ponytail, that contrasted against his dark skin. His eyes were unreadable, covered by dark glasses. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots, but still, it was unsurprising. Everyone in Briggs had things they preferred not to discuss.

Finally, the man recovered enough to speak.

“Hi, welcome!”

Buccaneer blinked, trying to take in the honey rich sound, trying to reconcile it with the too friendly smile that he hadn’t been wearing before.

“I uh, hear this is the place to get good coffee around here.” He tried to smile back, but found himself distracted. He’d never been good at small talk.

“Hot, fresh Ishvallan coffee and pastries, baked daily. We also do espresso.”

Buccaneer glanced at a clear glass case displaying the pastries. All of them were just as unfamiliar as the atmosphere of the cafe.

“Oh I’ve um, never had Ishvallan coffee before. Or pastries, when I think about it. Do you have a recommendation?”

It never hurt to ask, really.

“Well, the baklava is classic, most Amestrians enjoy it. It’s very popular. As for coffee, how sweet do you like it?”

“Very.”

There was no hesitation in his response. The barista’s smile may not have been real, but the warmth he exuded was genuine.

He chuckled, and that, too, was warm.

Maybe it was the quiet of the cafe, or maybe it was simply good customer service, but it was easy to smile now. Still, Buccaneer shifted, unsure of the proper etiquette here. Would this man judge him? What was he thinking? The tinted glasses made him hard to read, hiding his soul well.

“Do you… need my name or anything?”

“I’m fairly certain I can find you. The store isn’t that big.” The man’s eyebrows rose and his smile changed, coloured with laughter now.

It caught Buccaneer off guard, and he could feel his face heating up. How stupid was he? There wasn’t anyone else in the cafe but an orange and white cat. He fumbled with his wallet, cursing how slippery money was with gloves on, and took a seat. With free choice, it wasn’t hard to find someplace that let him have a full view out the windows, and of the counter, where the oh-so-interesting barista was setting about work. The cafe was his to observe. It was easily the brightest place he’d been in the North besides the greenhouse. The walls were decorated with fine mosaics, the geometric patterns drawing the eye, and inviting contemplation. The music playing was soft, and strange to his ears, but pleasing all the same. The barista hummed as he bustled around, giving Buccaneer plenty of time to observe him better.

The man moved with purpose, his easy manner relaxing. He obviously didn’t seem to think of Buccaneer as an intruder. He hadn’t stared, not since his initial shock. And even then, it hadn’t been with malice or hidden whispers. It was clear that he’d practiced this ritual for a long time, going through the motions gracefully as he prepared the food and drink. Buccaneer averted his eyes. This was something nearly sacred, not for his eyes.

Instead, he let his gaze fall on the counter, a bouquet of sunflowers drawing his attention. They were housed in a simple vase, decorated with a signature Armstrong bow. The style was yet another art that had been “passed down for generations” and as distinct as the man himself. He didn’t remember any orders coming in for sunflowers recently, and they looked freshly cut, so they must have gone out before he’d come in for the day.

Before he knew it, the barista was emerging from behind the counter, carrying a plated pastry and a delicate looking cup. Buccaneer smiled in thanks, nodding in appreciation as the food was placed in front of him. The aroma was already reaching him, making his mouth water.

“Forgive me if I’m prying, but you’re the first customer I’ve had in hours. What brings you to a place like this in the middle of the day?”

He started, looking up. The barista hadn’t fled from him. He could have just left the food, but here he was, looking genuinely curious. His eyes were easier to see now, slightly wide, fitting well with his other features. For whatever reason he wanted to know more. It was probably just boredom but…

“Well my boss gave you a recommendation. I work nearby, and it’s my lunch…”

The man raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. Of course. Buccaneer knew full well how out of place he seemed here.

“May I ask what you do?”

He didn’t have to answer, but he just had to know what this man would let slip.

“M’ a florist.”

“A florist huh? Must feel nice to bring people joy.”

Buccaneer frowned, grey memories flooding him.

_ A woman is crying in the shop. _

_ The hospital ward smells sickly sweet, a distasteful perfume. _

_ The scent of lillies stifles him, overwhelming. _

“It’s not always about joy…” he choked, already starting to count to himself. He looks away from barista, who now looks concerned, and for the second time, he is drawn to the sunflowers. He spits out the first words he could think of that weren’t about pain. “But it seems someone here is well loved.”

“Ah, what do you mean?”

“Those sunflowers. They can represent gratitude, and admiration. They’ve been arranged carefully too, like someone put a lot of thought into them. I’d guess they were given as a way to say ‘You bring warmth to my life.’”

The man paused thoughtfully. Buccaneer guessed he’d been the recipient. Of course. He was obviously attractive, the picture of courtesy and charm. This barista wasn’t the sort of man to pay attention to a person like him. A person who was broken. When the man laughed, real laughter, not sarcastic, it sounded as honey sweet as his voice.

“Well I can’t speak for myself, but I can say your presence has brought warmth to our cafe.”

Buccaneer felt his face heating up again as he met the man’s eyes. Was he… flirting? Unafraid, unashamed? He was just another customer, out of dozens this man saw every day. Just another lost soul of Briggs, the haven of the lost.

He wasn’t anything special.

And yet… 

And yet.

“Thank you for your kindness Mr…?”

“Miles.”

“Call me Buccaneer.”

“Well Mr. Buccaneer, I should let you enjoy your coffee.”

The man,  _ Miles, _ smiled once more, the practiced service charms now feeling like something more, something real.

It only took one more strong whiff of the coffee to remind Buccaneer of his purpose.

The cup itself was a work of art, painted in the same bright colours and patterns as the cafe. He tugged off his gloves, not wanting the fabric to make him clumsier than usual. Carefully, he picked up the cup, once again savouring the aroma before taking a sip. It was hot, and indeed sweet, the sugar blending with the rich boldness of the dark coffee. And beside it was the flaky nutty pastry Miles had called Baklava. It grounded the entire array, the flaky lightness a contrast to the richness of the drink.

Perfection.

Armstrong’s recommendation was well earned.

There was a lot to drink in, and Buccaneer was more than happy to sit back and once more become an observer. Still delighting in the bold new flavours, he finally relaxed into the atmosphere. Miles had picked up the notebook he’d hastily hidden before, and was deeply engaged with it. If anything, he was more attractive like this, biting his lip, twirling the old fashioned fountain pen in his hand as he wrote… something. It seemed he took his work seriously, whether serving guests or pursuing his personal tasks. He was clearly too engrossed to strike up more conversation.

Buccaneer let his attention wander back around the shop, and he found himself watching the shop cat as she stretched in the windowsill, waking up from her nap. It had been too long since he’d had a chance to be around animals. She was cute, acting aloof as she stalked through the shop, but making a beeline for him. So she was just as bored and curious as Miles then. She looked up at him with big green eyes and mewed, an obvious bid for attention that he was more than happy to give. Smiling he cooed at her, offering her his flesh hand to sniff. Quickly, she started to headbutt it, begging for pets.

“Good kitty… Soft kitty… Such a pretty girl huh?”

There were a lot of things that he missed, but having the privilege of petting soft animals was close to the top of the list, after hiking through the wilderness.

“She’s not usually so friendly, you know.”

Buccaneer almost jumped, and took a deep breath. How long had Miles been watching him?

“Really? She seems nice…”

“Nice? Yes. Friendly? Hah!”

Buccaneer clicked his tongue softly, glancing again at the cat. Perhaps she was just judgemental, or choosy. Animals had always liked him, not seeming to care about his imposing figure the way people did. As if to make a point, she prrted, and stalked away, going to a sunny corner to groom. He couldn’t help but grin.

He glanced at the clock. He didn’t have unlimited time. Armstrong would be expecting him back soon. Food finished, he rose, bringing the dishes back to the counter. There was no need to make Miles pick up his mess, after all.

“Thanks for the coffee, it was truly a delight.” He gestured to the sunflowers, “come by the shop if you need some food for these guys. They’ll appreciate it, I know.”

Miles nodded, pausing before speaking again. “Of course. Don’t be a stranger yourself. We like regulars here.” The smile that accompanied his words was like the summer sun. So he  _ was _ welcome here. This stranger had seen him, somehow, the way the animals always had, the way Armstrong had. And he had a particular talent for making him blush. Too quickly, face still hot, Buccaneer turned and left the little cafe.

Outside,the Northern winds were quick to shroud him in their chill as he walked away from the sanctuary.

He’d almost let himself get too comfortable.

***

It took a day of anxious waiting for Bucaneer to realise that he had forgotten to tell Miles  _ which _ flower shop he worked in. Briggs might not be the largest neighborhood, but there was more than one florist who worked near the Cafe Malja.

“I’m so  _ stupid _ !”

“Now now Mr. Buccaneer, don’t be so harsh on yourself! You said he invited you back to the cafe.”

It was a stupid idea to begin with… Of course I can come back, I’m another paying customer. That’s all.”

“You shouldn’t discount your feelings. They’re important!”

“I’m just being realistic. He was just being nice.”

“Well, Briggs is a close-knit neighbourhood. Perhaps you’ll see him again, outside of work.”

Buccaneer smiled a little. Armstrong was always optimistic. Perhaps he didn’t understand, but at least he was supportive. It really had been a stupid, impulsive idea though. It would be better, easier to put it out of mind.

Every night, Buccaneer walked home through the snowbanks. He greeted his house plants, and shared his dinner with them. They couldn’t talk to him, but he stroked their fronds all the same, making gentle comments to Anya and Fedya and Ivan and all the others. They passed well enough for company.

He worked on his strength building, and wrote reports for the doctors.

He wiped himself clean from the sweat of the day, too tired to try and shower.

He went to bed, and dreamed of cold cells and hard stares.

He woke up, and repeated the routine.

It was a week before Miles burst into the shop, and forced himself into Buccaneer’s solid routine. He was just as dignified as he’d been in the cafe, if a little more disheveled. He wasn’t panting, but his desperation was all too clear. Buccaneer was already more than familiar with the face of a man who had been seeking something special without success.

“Ah, welcome! You look like you need something sorely.”

His eyes were still protected by the dark goggles he’d been wearing in the cafe, but Buccaneer swore he saw his eyes widen and his face take on a darker tinge. Was he  _ blushing _ ?

“It’s you!”

“Yeah, I’m me. Got no one else to be after all.”

Miles’ face passed through shock and bewilderment before settling into laughter.

“I never realised how many flower shops there were in Briggs before this week!”

“Yeah, it’s a little surprising, but Armstrong’s is the best.”

Sure, he was boasting, but he still grinned broadly. What else could he do?

“Well, it’s a good thing I came looking for the best then.”

“Tell me your woes Mr. Miles, and I will find you a bouquet to ease them.”

“I need something for someone who thinks “flowers suck ass” Their words. Not mine.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“No, just date night. But they keep doing all this sweet sappy stuff for me…”

Buccaneer nodded. Just as he’d thought. Miles was was far too beautiful a man to be single. But he’d sought out the shop specifically, sought  _ him _ out particularly. He was still smiling kindly, almost apologetically. He was a good man, who needed a good bouquet.

“Well, have you thought about giving them their own words?”

“Please, do elaborate Mr. Buccaneer.”

“Well, we’ve got some sainfoin in the shop right now. It means agitation. If you pair it with rue, it’ll look pretty good. And rue means disdain, so together those two convey the “sucks ass” part of the message.”

“And what kind of flower means flower?”

Buccaneer wished he could capture Miles’ obvious delight. It was subtle, like all his other emotions, hidden by the dark glasses, but Buccaneer had made it practice to read even the most subtle cues. It had saved him more than once. But if he had to guess, he’d say not many would try to read Miles. A curious thing, for such a bold person to conceal himself.

Why would he feel such a deep need to hide?

It was better not to wonder.

“I’d go for white daisies. In flower language they mean purity, but they’re a pretty stereotypical flower. Put them all together with some greenery and pretty words, and you’d be all set.”

“You are a lifesaver. My thanks is yours.”

He bowed slightly, twirling his hand like a parody of a storybook lord. It was ridiculous, and  _ cute _ and Buccaneer found himself blushing yet again at his hands.

“If you’d like, You can watch me arrange it. It’ll take a while for me to match up to Mr. Armstrong, but he’s put me in charge.”

“Is he… in right now?

Another subtle shift, this time tension pulling across Miles as he stood up straighter, glancing anxiously at the door. 

“He’s on his lunch, and then he’s got paperwork to deal with. I’ve got the shop until close.”

The tension evaporated almost instantly, another mystery for Buccaneer to try and ignore. He showed Miles to the worktable he used for projects like this, and gestured to a chair before going to collect the flowers. This was a simple job, but it was still important to get it just right. More important than usual, because this was for Miles. He’d been kind to Buccaneer, and Buccaneer wouldn’t soon forget that. 

The world had a tendency to disappear as he worked, focusing on the placement of each flower. This was simple pleasure, delicate art. This was almost joy.

It didn’t take long for him to finish. The bouquet has a simple rustic elegance to it, something different from what he usually made. He had a good feeling about it.

“So, will this work?”

“It’s absolutely perfect. I am truly in your debt.”

The warm tone filled Buccaneer from head to toe. Miles himself seemed to glow, filling the shop with the radiant beauty of a man in love.

The rest of the transaction was quick, payment exchanged along with a smile. 

“You know, I wasn’t kidding about regulars…”

Buccaneer didn’t know what to say. What could he say?

“The cafe does get busier around the Spring Festival, but we’d still love to see you. Or at least, Zara would.”

“The cat?”

“Yeah, she gets grumpy without enough attention, and her master has been busy lately.”

A slight nod. Remember, good customer service. 

Remember, he was just a customer to Miles.

Remember, Miles has someone already, someone who cares for him deeply.

Remember he’s still just a stranger.

“Well, maybe it’s in the cards. Until then?”

“Until then.”

Miles bows slightly again, and then he’s turning and leaving, taking his radiance with him.

Buccaneer walks home through melting snowbanks. He greets his plants, Anya and Fredya and Ivan and all of the others.

He shares his dinner with them, telling them about his day.

He works on his strength building, and writes his report.

He wipes himself down, too tired to shower.

He goes to bed, and dreams of hot coffee, bright white hair, and warm shaded eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the lovely bouquet in the cafe.  
> The Russian is counting, the number 9 and 10 specifically.
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome! <3


	3. Corvette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Featuring all good Livmiles and a lot of dialouge.
> 
> It's not as long as chapter 2, but what is consistency anyways? Enjoy!

It was dark. It had been dark for hours. Olivier grunted as she stared at the gowing red numbers of the alarm clock. 3:27 am. It was too damn early.

She’d finally thought she was drifting off, only for another stray thought to catch her, and pull her away from true sleep.

Grunting again, she buried herself in Miles’ shoulder, and closed her eyes again, breathing in his cinnamony musk, letting it soothe her. She let go, and let herself drift. Miles was solid, the rise and fall of his chest creating a steady rhythm. He had been so preoccupied recently… But he was still here. Her pillar. He’d always helped her, even when he didn’t realise it.

The sleep was wonderful. She blinked as she woke, eyes still heavy. Checked the alarm clock.

3:32 am.

Fuck.

She sighed, and again tried to snuggle into Miles, but he had shifted. She smiled. He was so peaceful here, in their bed. Sleep always softened his face, his troubles eased for a few brief hours. When  he was awake, heavy thoughts brewed behind his red eyes, a constant stream of questions and words ready to erupt, held back so carefully behind dark glasses. And lately, those dark thoughts seemed to hold more force than usual. She hadn’t been able to pin it down, or fight it off. All she could do was let him seek his own answers, and stand by his side. Like this, protected,  he was unassuming. When he shielded himself, he had a way of blending into the background. But when he looked at you, truly looked at you, then he showed his steel. When Miles looked at her, she couldn’t look away.

She shifted and pressed her back against his chest, alarm clock still taunting her.

3:40 am.

She closed her eyes again, not fighting the darkness.

“Please, let go!”

Olivier is jarred awake, sitting up sharply. Miles is thrashing beside her, face contorting into grimaces and frowns and…

“Miles! Miles, wake up!” She shakes him, roughly in her own fear. 

“G-get off! I-I said I don’t want you!” His voice is more panicked now, and he whimpers, still trapped by his mind.

“Miles, It’s me, please… Come back to me…” She strokes his arm, pleading, every second the knot of worry growing inside her. “Please Miles, wake up…”

He jolts, and gasps, eyes snapping open, filled with fear and the fire of a fight. “I won’t let you touch me, you bastard!”

She caught his fist easily, speaking in a low voice. “Miles, you’re awake now. You’re safe.”

“Liv… Liv.” Miles trembled, breath shuddering as he realised where he was “‘M sorry…”

“Don’t be. I’m here.” She smiled at him reassuringly, pushing sweat-drenched hair out of his face. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. It was just a stupid dream.”

“You almost hit me this time…”

“It’s fine. I just needed to squash a roach.” His smile was weak, and tired, eyes haunted by whatever gauntlet he’d been running, even as she pulled him close.

“It can’t hurt you anymore. If that  _ thing _ ever steps foot in my city, I’ll exterminate it myself.” Her voice was fierce, eyes steel.

“Liv, I can protect myself. You taught me that much.”

“Well I don’t want you to have to go anywhere near him, ever again. And I’ve got my own score to settle.”

“It… it doesn’t matter.” He sighed, and gave into her, weight resting firmly against her. “You’re better than I deserve.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re my partner.”

He didn’t say anything, instead letting her stroke his hair.

“Do you want to talk about it, Miles?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Just old memories.”

She didn’t say anything about the tears she felt soaking her shirt, or the trembling of his hands. She simply kept comforting him, making herself a pillar for him, holding tight as slowly, his breathing evened out, body no longer fighting him.

“I’m sorry I woke you…”

“You didn’t.”

“Liv…” his brow furrowed.

“No. No, I don’t need your worry right now, Miles. I’m fine.”

“Not sleeping is  _ not _ fine!”

“And nightmares are?” she snapped back, regret filling her seconds later when he pulled away from her, tense once again.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he said, stroking her face softly, “But it’s the third time this week, love.”

“Well I’ll just… do a harder workout tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “And miss our date?”

“Not for the world. Perhaps you should tire me out then!”

He laughed before kissing her, the sound small, but hopeful, the demon that had accosted him banished. “Of course, of course. What else is date night for?”

“Saying fuck you to assholes like that roach.”

She glanced at the alarm clock again. 

4:15 am.

“Do you think you can sleep again, Miles?”

He groaned. “I should try… S’ Hakim’s turn to do the baking…”

“Alright then. Is there anything I can do?”

“I want you to hold me. And I want the weighted blanket. And… could you sing for me?”

“You know my voice is awful.”

“You know I think that’s bullshit.”

She sighed, and pulled the heavy blanket onto their bed, draping it over him. As the weight of it settled onto him, he relaxed again, soothed. She pulled him into her arms, kissing his head before she began to sing. The blanket, she knew, was another shield, something solid and reassuring, a barrier between him and those who’d wish him harm. He’d always said her song was a spell, weaving its protections around them both. The old melodies echoed from her childhood, and the childhoods of those who’d sung it before her into the present. Each song held its own story, no matter how nonsensical. She knew the words of others were all he needed to give his own mind, always so full of his own words, a rest. She smiled as he drifted back to sleep.

She lost track of the blinking numbers on the clock as she sang, the steady beat of his heart and the cadences of his breath lulling her as he fell back into sleep’s domain. He was her song, and she held him close to her chest, finally fighting off the restless thrumming thoughts that had kept her prisoner. All she felt as she fell into the darkness was relief.

***

When she woke again, the alarm was blaring, and Miles was gone. She had the faintest memory of him kissing her and of snuggling into the warm spot he’d left on the bed before falling back to sleep. Glaring, she shut off the alarm. Couldn’t it have waited just a few more minutes?

Unwilling to leave the warm nest, still fighting drowsiness, she grabbed her phone, and sent Miles a good morning text. He’d respond when he got a chance. Work kept him busy, after all. Sitting up against the pillows, she scrolled through her social media feeds, putting off the inevitable for just a few more minutes. Catherine Elle had had another dance recital, and the family was enthused. Mustang had gotten some bullshit award at the last big show. The Xingese martial arts prodigy, Mei Chang, was doing an exhibition in Central next month. Frank Archer had been arrested for sexual harassment, and Mayor Raven of North City was “shocked and disappointed that such a bright young man would fall under such accusations”.

Boring, inane, possibly interesting, troublesome.

She skipped to Cafe Malja’s feed, and grinned at Miles’ daily latte art. In honor of the blooming spring, he’d done a lovely flower and of course, Zara was admiring it. She chuckled, He’d had flowers on the mind recently, ever since that incident with the Drachman.

Bolstered with cheer, she rose, shedding her pajamas, and quickly changing into her workout gear. A chill still lingered in the apartment, but it didn’t bother her. She eased into her usual routine, stretching and moving, waking her sleep-heavy muscles. She pushed through her paces, routines built from years of study across disciplines. Soon she didn’t feel a chill, body singing as she kicked and punched in time to the rhythm of the fights she imagined.

She didn’t stop until her breathing grew laboured, coming in short pants, and her skin was coated with  sheen of sweat. All her weariness had faded, and she felt a new energy welling up within her, despite the sleepless night she’d endured. Her body was strong, and good, and capable. She could move, and she could fight. She’d never felt more alive than when she was fighting.

She showered briefly, cool water invigorating. Miles had left her a pastry, a leftover from the cafe along with a little note in his neat handwriting.

“ _ Olivier. Please make sure you eat this before I get home. Food is good for you, no matter how much you try to protest. I had them save your favourite, so  _ don’t  _ complain. Love, Miles _ ”

She chuckled as she ate it, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and waiting for her morning tea to brew. After all, she couldn’t leave him disappointed. She only sat long enough to consume the much-needed caffeine, moving quickly back to the bedroom.

She just had to get through the day. Nothing fancy, nothing difficult. She needed something comfortable. She scowled as she rifled through her drawers, muttering about needing to clean them again as she passed over binders and lingerie both. Why did Miles always feel the need to put her work clothes in the bottom of the drawer? She tugged on the simple boxers and sports bra she’d managed to dig out, and went back to rummaging, muttering again as she sorted through button downs and t-shirts. Work wasn’t the place to indulge, and she still had to look like the boss. Finally she settled on a black turtleneck, a blue and green flannel, and well-worn jeans. Simple. Casual. Her boys would respect it, but then, they’d always respect their General.

Tonight she could let go and stop worrying for a few hours. Tonight she could be just herself, and Miles would be her willing accomplice, in all their plans. She just had to make it through the day first. Just one, short, easy day, and the night would be hers.

***

Somehow, one short day became an eternity.

Henschel was testy, again questioning her decisions, despite knowing her capability.

Karley had called in “sick”, coughing and claiming to need “special care” from a “qualified nurse”. He barely even tried to hide his boyfriend’s snickering in the background, and Olivier had hung up in a rage, disgusted. And of course he still hadn’t trained a proper secretary, leaving her to answer the phones for the rest of the day.

Which meant that she was trapped in the office, stuck filing paperwork, pausing every five minutes to answer another inane question from a hopeless newbie trying to impress her, or something.

Longingly, she looked out, into the shop where her boys were working on their appointments. What she wouldn’t give to be elbows deep in an engine, doing something  _ useful _ .

Growling, she turned back to the paperwork. Someone had to make sure the Spring Festival application wasn’t fucked up, and that unfortunate someone was her.

She found herself counting the hours until she could close up, trying to keep herself in check. So maybe she snapped at Henschel after the third round of “Are you sure General?” that day. Maybe she glared at the new kid until he looked like crying. Maybe she just needed a break.

Miles would fix it. Miles always fixed it.

She was still grumbling when she stormed into their apartment.

“Liv, is that you?” Miles’ voice rang out from somewhere.

A grunt.

“I’m in the kitchen!”

She smiled, and kicked off her work boots, padding into the kitchen and wrapping herself around him, not caring what he was in the middle of. He smelled nice, more like the coffee shop now than his natural cinnamon.

“Long day?

Another grunt.

“You gonna let me finish with the dishes…?”

She hugged him tighter, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Alright, alright. I’m here. Y’know it’ll be better on the couch…”

She practically dragged him to it, not once letting go.

He chuckled, and let her hold him. She basked in his warmth, the soft touch slowly melting her icey scowl.

“You still up for date night?”

“‘Course I am.” It was easier for her speak now, his words encouraging her.

“Mm… I got you something today, while I was out…”

“Y’don’t have to do that. I don’t need stuff.”

“But I wanted to, my love.”

“Sap.” she sighed and looked around, eyes landing almost instantly on a bouquet that was resting on their coffee table. She blinked. How had she missed that earlier?

“What the fuck are those, Miles.”

“They’re flowers Liv. For you.”

She paused, looking at them again. Sainfoin, rue, daisies… and an Armstrong’s ribbon, tied almost the way Alex would but… sloppier. As though the bow maker had been overly eager and unpracticed. She guffawed, the meaning clear.

“Flowers suck ass, huh?”

“Your words. Not mine.”

“Miles, how did I get lucky enough to find you?”

“Ah, what some call luck, others call Ishvalla’s guidance.”

“Tch!” She shook her head still grinning. “I’m going to change. Some of us have been waiting all day for some proper treatment.”

She didn’t wait for him to follow her as she strode to the bedroom, shedding the simple work clothes. Only Miles would think to buy her such a cheeky bouquet. Still, it wasn’t like him to pay visits to Alex, and Alex would never have agreed to put together such a rude arrangement, especially not for her. And yet it was unmistakably from his shop. She was rifling through her drawers again when she heard Miles enter.

“I’m glad you liked them.”

She ignored his sighs as underwear was tossed to the floor. “I hope that coward didn’t waste his breath fussing over you.”

“Which coward?”

“My fool of a brother!”

“Ah, you noticed then?”

She glared at him, and he chuckled.

“Actually, Alex wasn’t in. He’s got a new employee.”

Miles’ smile was sparkling as brightly an Amstrong. Olivier was still trying to scowl, but Miles made it awfully hard when he was being so charming.

“Tch, he hasn’t said anything about it to me.”

“Like you’d give him even half a chance to.”

“I don’t have time to deal with snivelling worms.”

Miles laughed again as he dressed himself in a sharp black suit. She pouted. He’d already gotten the pants on. 

“No sneak peaks?”

“You don’t want to spoil your dinner~.”

“Fine. Then you can’t look either.”

“Alright, alright!” He made a show of covering his eyes and turning around so she could dress.

“So tell me about this new employee.”

“Well, I already have…”

“Bullshit. You only just told me about him.”

“I mean, he’s my mystery man. Mr. Buccaneer.”

“Really? What a fascinating coincidence.”

She could practically hear Miles raising his eyebrow. 

“I was surprised myself. But I know where to find him again.”

“Perhaps I’ll pay him a visit myself.”

She hummed as she pulled on the sapphire blue suit she’d chosen for herself, the rich wool and elegant silk lapels a special kind of comfort. She inhaled deeply and turned, basking in Miles’ gasp.

“Wow. You look… You look incredible Liv.”

“You’ve seen me like this hundreds of times Miles.”

“And it never gets old. The blue compliments your eyes.”

“Miles…”

“Yeah Liv?”

“I want to see your eyes tonight.”

He hesitated, then folded up his goggles, leaving them beside the alarm clock, before taking her hand.

“Alright. But just for you.” His eyes were soft as they met hers, and she pulled him down into a deep kiss.

“I love you, Liv.”

“I know.”

He kissed her again, and she tugged on his hand.

“Come on lover boy, your chariot awaits you. And some of us are hungry!”

“Alright, alright!” he laughed, and Olivier pulled him downstairs into the classic Corvette she’d borrowed from the shop. Together, they rode into the night, sharing conversation and company. In light of milkshakes and burgers, Olivier pushed away thoughts of her brother, and his new employee, and the ridiculous bouquet she’d been given. Miles was more than happy to tell her tale after tale of the ridiculous customers from the cafe, or of the newest debate he’d gotten into with Scar. She smiled, and let him regale her, repaying him with smiles and laughter. They led each other through the city, and into a dancehall, the big band music swinging, along with the dancer. Olivier grinned as they joined in, both taking the lead in their own time. 

Miles is glowing, glowing more brightly than he has in months, and Olivier takes it in stride, his happiness filling her with a special joy that long ago he taught her the name of.

Love.

Miles is glowing, and something new has entered his heart, something that she’d seen him seeking, casting about in the dark with only her as a light. And yet, it had only been a week.

She made a mental note to pay the flower shop a visit sooner rather than later.

 

Miles is glowing, and she couldn’t be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the car they drive to their date. I actually know nothing about cars and had to start looking up appropriate ones, hah.
> 
> For the curious: Hakim is Scar's brother, who I just... gave a name. It kills me that he doesn't have a canon one.
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome!


End file.
